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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247092">Southwick</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/themostoriginalname/pseuds/themostoriginalname'>themostoriginalname</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:13:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,520</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247092</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/themostoriginalname/pseuds/themostoriginalname</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Imogen Southwick is known by many as the forgotten daughter. Younger than her two older sisters, she was always well groomed, well mannered, and well spoken. None of this changed after her mother killed her entire family. She was still kind, considerate, but never perfect. When family friend Connie Chiba takes Imogen in and gifts her a new last name, it seems as if things may start to look up. Moving to a new town, Imogen takes a risk and allows herself to make friends—something she hasn't done since before her mother proved herself to be a monster. But not everyone in this new town is as welcoming.</p><p>As she begins to traverse this strange new world as the San Francisco Psycho's daughter, Imogen uncovers many more secrets lurking in the shadows. Secrets that include the undercover world of Beacon Hills' supernatural population.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Stiles Stilinski/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello and welcome to my first book on this website! Mostly, I write on Wattpad, but I thought I'd drop one of my newest works here! I've been writing this book for a while now, and I love it dearly, so please tell me what you think of it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I once had two sisters. They were older than me, stronger, smarter—the duo to end all duos. Twins, one with the deep brown hair of my father and one with red flames like Mom adorning her head. Beautiful, everyone told me. I could see it too. I always envied the glint in their sapphire eyes, the cruel twist of fate that made me plain while they bathed in the glory of lovely ivory skin and small, button noses.</p>
<p>This was of course a long time ago, before everything in my life changed.</p>
<p>I say everything changed, but in reality, I think it’s more reasonable to say that everything <em>twisted</em>. When the twins were gone, buried alongside my grandparents in a cemetery only a short walk from our home, I was entering my first year of high school. It was a learning curve for my parents—only waking one daughter in the morning, only driving her to school, not worrying about clubs or sports or proms. I was pretty easy. I woke up before my mother had the chance to do it, I made myself breakfast and washed the dishes, I was always polite.</p>
<p>Which is why I was so confused when Mom started acting strange. She was irritable, rude, messy. Our house, one where dust never hit the floor, was now disorganized and crowded with small trinkets Mom found at local estate sales. Old stuff lined our bookshelves—things we never would have used to decorate.</p>
<p>Mom’s favorite was a painting from the mid-1900s. World War II era, she told me when she brought it home, complete with the drooping faces of Japanese prisoners, and the grinning ones of handsome young American soldiers. She placed it at the front of the house where everyone could see it, and the faces of those grieving Japanese haunted my dreams until I hit the age of fifteen.</p>
<p>That’s when Mom really went off her rocker.</p>
<p>Her skin lost that plumpness of health, and her bright red hair dulled to be a brassy orange. She didn’t speak much, to me or my father, but she always had something to say. You could see it in her eyes, the wild yearn for conversation. It wasn’t how she used to look, because before the twins, she’d always smiled and spoken her mind without thought. Now, I feared for what she had to say.</p>
<p>It was a Tuesday when I was called out of my algebra class and asked to come to the front office, where two police detectives met me in a forgotten conference room. The school was old and in need of severe updating, so the room smelled of mildew, and the tiles on the ceiling were yellowed with age. There was a tall detective and a short detective, but I can’t remember their names. This is because that day is mostly a blur.</p>
<p>“At around ten this morning, we received a call from your neighbor.” They were talking, and one of them reached out to hold my hand. She was a kind woman, with dyed blonde hair and eyes that made you believe that everything was going to be okay. “She’d heard screaming, and she wanted us to come check it out…”</p>
<p>I didn’t listen to anything else, because deep down I thought I knew where this was going. That morning, Mom had opened her mouth for the first time in weeks, just to spit abuse at my father and me. Dad called out of work on his way to drop me off at school, telling me that he wanted to stay home and see if he could help Mom at all.</p>
<p>“We’re so sorry for your loss, Emmy.” It was the woman with the kind eyes that finally said it. Dad was gone, just like the twins, and it was all Mom’s fault. All her fault.</p>
<p>My heart, one that pumped blood and life and happiness, turned to stone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I eat the oatmeal that Connie gives me without question, and gulp down the coffee she’s bought for me too. It’s bitter, matching my rotten mood, but I feel it start to loosen the stiff muscles in my neck and shoulders. Connie carefully sips at her own drink—an herbal tea made from plants she finds on our rest stops—and doesn’t even try speaking to me.</p>
<p>We stopped the whole ‘nice’ thing nearly six months ago, when I finally told her that she’d never be able to fix me. I was always going to be this way—damaged, broken, the ugly duckling of the murderous San Fran Psycho. That’s why she stopped trying to mother me.Now, we’re acquaintances, like coworkers in an office who don’t speak unless it’s absolutely necessary. I pretend as if I’m in a cubicle on the other side of the building, working on something very important and highly classified, while Connie sits at reception, telling people to leave me alone. It’s worked well for us, and I have no complaints.</p>
<p>Connie was once a family friend. There are pictures of her holding me when I was a baby, videos of my first birthday where you can see her watching me smash my cake apart. I say that she was once a family friend, because now she’s legally family. No longer are we just people from two different walks of life, now we’re partners in an epic drama-packed action movie. My feet are propped up on the dashboard of Connie’s nice SUV, tapping against the shiny metal to the beat of the song on the radio. We’re on the highway, going south. Connie’s sipping on that tea as if it actually tastes good, but I see her wince every time she swallows. It tastes like shit, and she knows it, but she’s far too prideful to admit it.</p>
<p>The oatmeal is strawberries and cream, which I remember liking when I was younger. I wonder silently if this is why Connie’s chosen it. If so, I need to remember to thank her. There’s actually a lot of things I need to thank her for. Taking me in, sitting next to me during Mom’s trial, acting as my personal bodyguard when reporters outside of the courthouse got too close. She’s a good woman, the only person I can count on. That’s why I don’t ask again why she’s taking me south, away from all the bustle of San Francisco. She’s got her heart set on something—maybe the semblance of a normal life away from the cameras and the gossip. I don’t have the heart to tell her that gossip has the ability to follow me anywhere I go.</p>
<p>My face is in nearly every magazine across the state of California. I’m the poster child for fucked up childhoods, and everyone knows it. Still, Connie gave me her last name to protect me as much as she could. No more am I Imogen Southwick. I go by Imogen Chiba, which is almost laughable because I don’t have Connie’s petite nose, or her almond eyes. I am not her daughter, but I pretend that I could be.</p>
<p>I may not match my new name, but I feel comfortable with it—like I’m wrapped in a security blanket where no one can hurt me. I’m seventeen now, and I know that with age I will begin to accept the craziness of my life. For now, though, I eat my breakfast.</p>
<p>Acceptance can be tackled another day.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When the light is low, and the sun has left the sky, Connie pulls from the highway. We’re much further south than I realized originally, because when we finally get out of the car, the earth is still radiating heat from the August afternoon. I pull my sweater over my head and fan my face. We’re standing in the parking garage for an apartment building. Fully furnished, Connie keeps telling me. We each grab our bags—one large suitcase for her and a smaller one for me—and wander inside, where Connie grabs our key from a mailbox marked <em>Chiba</em>.</p>
<p>Inside, the building is air conditioned and cool enough to bring a chill to my skin. As we board the elevator to get to our floor, Connie gives me a sly smile. She’s always been proud of her money-saving habits, but she keeps wanting to tell me how much of a steal this apartment was. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and just a short ride to the closest high school.</p>
<p>I split from her side the second we’re inside the new place, and make it to my room, where I see a bed, nightstand, and two dressers. My bathroom is attached to my closet, where I know there will be tons of empty space. Everything is finished in silver and white. Modern, sleek architecture. I can’t help but touch every surface I can reach, before scooching my dressers into the closet and opening up more room for a desk.</p>
<p>Connie told me that she would find me one once we were settled, and I can already imagine one sitting against the room’s only window. I flip open my suitcase and pull out a new set of sheets, dressing the bed quickly before emptying my small pile of clothes into the closet dressers. I barely take up three drawers, but it’s good, because everything I’ve brought with me has no memory attached to it.</p>
<p>Back in San Francisco, there are dressers and closets full of memories. Bad memories, like the blouse I wore when I was called to the stand during Mom’s trial. Or the dress I wore to the verdict reading. I remember Mom’s eyes the day she saw it, how her lips curled to show hate.</p>
<p>“She wasn’t always like that.” Connie’s in the doorway to the bathroom, and I turn to look at her, wondering how she always knows what I’m thinking. “You can still love her.”</p>
<p>There’s no humor in my voice. “I don’t want to love her anymore.”</p>
<p>Connie nods, then steps back when I walk through to the bedroom. She follows me to the bed, where I fluff the pillows some more before straightening out the blanket I have over the sheets. She told me that she’d get me a quilt, but it was still so hot outside, so I knew I’d only need something thin to rest. I lean against the mattress and Connie follows suit, letting her eyes take in the room.</p>
<p>“Spacious,” she comments, eyes chasing the shape of a high ceiling.</p>
<p>“Very,” I agree.</p>
<p>There’s nothing left to say, because neither Connie nor myself like small talk. She sighs, then stretches slightly, as if the day’s travel is getting to her. I’m reminded of Connie’s age then, because she looks so young standing in front of me when she’s actually much older than she appears. She always told me it was the tea she drank that made her look so youthful, but I was sure there had to be something a little more medical to the smoothness of her face and the plumpness of her cheeks.</p>
<p>She pulls something out of her back pocket and hands it over. A piece of paper folded in on itself. I unfurl it, then read through the contents. “A schedule.”</p>
<p>“A class schedule,” Connie confirms. She wanders over to the door leading to the living room and kitchen space. “Part of my job is making sure you’re in school.”</p>
<p>Something akin to anger bubbles inside me, and I want to lash out—to remind her how the people at school treat me. I’m the daughter of a killer. The daughter of the San Fran Psycho, who murdered her eldest children before turning on her own husband. <em>I wonder how many others there are</em>, people will say as I walk to class. <em>Don’t sit with mommy’s little prodigy. </em>It’s something I’ve become very used to.</p>
<p>Like always, Connie seems to understand the hesitation on my face and the frustration bubbling underneath it. “If it goes as bad as you expect, then we can get you a computer—you can learn from home. But you have to try it my way first.”</p>
<p>“Tomorrow?” I ask, cursing the way my voice sounds small in the expanse of the large room. I’m like a child inside an adult’s body. Hiding behind the face of control.</p>
<p>“Tomorrow.”</p>
<p>And then she’s gone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The night is spent like every other. I lay in bed, stare blankly at the ceiling until I fall into some sort of rest, then relive the day I last saw Dad. Every time I change something—one detail of the day as to see the new outcome. What if I’d stayed home from school that day? Or maybe I’d discovered Mom’s murderous tendencies before she had the chance to lay a finger on Dad. In my dreams I am braver. I’m tall like the twins, and I never cower in the face of danger. I’m cunning, and I outsmart my mother in ways I could only wish of doing in real life. She’s never herself in the dreams, though. Mom’s a dragon, or a vampire, or a zombie lurking in the shadows. Even my subconscious knows to forget her face.</p>
<p>Through countless journeys, I face the beast. I kill, I maim, I die. I use every weapon I can think of, then imagine more when none of them work.</p>
<p>I do this until Connie’s hand is on my shoulder, shaking me awake.</p>
<p>Her hand is gone the second my eyes are open, and she’s already dressed for the day. She’s sipping on her tea, glancing at the clock on her wrist. “There’s an hour before school starts. I’ll drive you.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” I say, pulling myself to a sitting position.</p>
<p>Around me, the bed is as tidy as I left it. When I stand, I only have to smoothen the sheets out until they’re back to perfect condition. Since the trial, I haven’t moved in my sleep. Too preoccupied with my dreams, I suppose.</p>
<p>As I get dressed, I prepare myself for the day. Physically, I don’t care much about my appearance, but to stay sane, I count off the things in my head that I need to do.</p><ol>
<li><em>I need to find my classes.</em></li>
<li><em>I need to stay out of the way.</em></li>
<li><em>I need to make sure Connie picks me up.</em></li>
</ol>
<p>It’s not a very long list, but if I repeat the needs over and over in my head, I can block out the whispers of gossip. I run a brush through my hair, then tuck the pieces closest to my face behind my ears. After the trial, I stopped caring much about the way I looked. If I wore makeup, newspapers said that I was smug and unapologetic about my mother’s crimes. If I went bare, I was suddenly sickly, and I had a killer glint in my eyes.</p>
<p>Now, I no longer play with the thought of being presentable.</p>
<p>I put on a large tee shirt and a pair of jeans. The shirt is long-sleeved, so I roll the cuffs for my hands to peak through. Already, heat is beating in through my window, telling me that the day will be southern California hot. Without a thought, I switch my shirt for a short sleeved one.</p>
<p>When I’m ready, Connie meets me by the front door. She’s dressed in a nice flowered frock, with sleek heels and a large tote on her elbow. To anyone else, she looks like a business woman. To me, she just looks like Connie.</p>
<p>Unlike many others in the world, Connie spends most of her time at local coffee shops, working on her manuscript for publishing. It wasn’t anything special before my mother lost her mind, but now that she has me to look after, it has become a book waited for with bated breath. She has plans to publish within a month.</p>
<p>I hope she doesn’t paint me as a burden.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I’m dropped off at the school, Connie grabs my hand through the passenger side window. She doesn’t say anything but squeezes hard until I nod at her. It’s a way for her to tell me that she’s there—that she’s ready to help me whenever I need it. I want to crawl back in the car and let her hold me, just so I know that there’s at least one person left in the world that doesn’t believe me to be a monster.</p>
<p>She pulls away from the curb, and I’m alone, left in the pit of the lions. I turn, and make my way to the school doors, just so no one can recognize me. To anyone else, I look like a student with somewhere to be. In actuality, I’m a scared kid trying her best not to lose her mind.</p>
<p>In my hand, I see that my first period class is in a classroom on the second floor of the building. I wander to the room and catch the sight of caution tape on the door. There’s a note attached to the tape, telling me that the class has been relocated for the foreseeable future. Part of me thinks it’s some kind of cruel prank, so I peek in through the window on the door.</p>
<p>There are construction workers inside, fastening huge glass windows to the far side of the room. They must have broken, but I can’t help but assume the worst. Maybe someone broke through and fell to their death. Maybe they knew I was coming, and they decided they’d rather die than sit in the same room as me.</p>
<p>“Idiot,” I say under my breath, beating the thoughts away like rats.</p>
<p>“Can I help you?” A cool voice asks from behind me. I turn to find a middle-aged man with glasses staring at me. He’s got a mug of coffee in his hand, and a folder full of papers stuffed under his arm. “I believe it’s almost time for class to begin.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t immediately recognize me, but then I see a flicker of recognition on his face. “Sorry,” I say, ducking my head low so he won’t ask me any questions. “I got turned around.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” he allows. “This class is downstairs now.”</p>
<p>I nod briskly, then walk away before he can ask me anything else. I feel his eyes piercing into my back, wanting to stop me, to ask me questions. It’s sickening, and my breath picks up until I sound as if I’ve been sprinting a marathon. I keep my head low, bumping into other students until I finally make it to the right classroom.</p>
<p>The teacher sees me before I see her, and she walks over to me with a smile on her face. Students are already in the room, but it’s not completely full yet, so no one really spares me a glance. For that, I’m glad. “Miss Chiba, am I right?” The teacher spooks me, and I jump, eyes widening comically.</p>
<p>“Yes,” I say. “Sorry.”</p>
<p>She’s got a young face—maybe late twenties. Brown hair falls around her shoulders in waves, and stiletto heels make her much taller than she should be. She still stands about three inches shorter than me.</p>
<p>“Don’t be sorry,” she says, eyes raking my face. Since she’s so much shorter than me, there’s no way for me to hide my features. It’s obvious she knows me—knows who I am. I can tell because she’s memorizing the way my nose tilts upwards like my mother’s. It used to be a compliment (<em>you have your mom’s nose</em>), but now it a dead giveaway to my heritage. “I’m Ms. Blake.” She holds out a hand.</p>
<p>I don’t shake it, because I’m pretty sure my palms are slick with sweat. I look at the hand until she drops it, then meet her eyes. “I’m Imogen.”</p>
<p>“I know,” she whispers. Her eyes widen as if she didn’t mean to say that, then she smiles bashfully. Above us, the bell rings, signaling the beginning of class.</p>
<p>I hadn’t noticed, but the room is full of students, all sitting patiently at their desks. Eyes peel into me, like a finger peels away the husk of an orange. I clench my jaw. I rearrange my shoulders, so I don’t look so tall. It’s another thing that makes me stick out in a crowd. I’m long, with arms that hang too low and legs that seem almost like they belong to a newborn horse.</p>
<p>Ms. Blake takes my elbow in one of her hands, then drags me to the center of the classroom. “Class, we have a new student today. This is Imogen Chiba.”</p>
<p>Someone coughs in the class, masking the way they say, “Southwick.”</p>
<p>My face grows hot as giggles fill my ears. I’m like a museum piece, stuck under the eyes of people who don’t care about me, only the worst part of my past. On my elbow, Ms. Blake squeezes. It’s supposed to be comforting, but it’s more like a vice, squishing me until I finally give up. I wiggle from her grasp, and she points out a seat behind a girl with hair like my mother’s. With as much courage and dignity that I can muster, I make it to the desk, and sit.</p>
<p>Class begins, but there’s not one pair of eyes on Ms. Blake.</p>
<p>They’re all on me.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I eat lunch alone, but no one is allowed to eat outside of the cafeteria, so I’m stuck at my own table. It’s packed, and there are tons of students whispering about me. At least three people venture over to me, but they turn and leave when I give them a glare. I spend most of my time glancing at the students around me, taking in the vastness of the room and the fluorescent lights—how they shine against my skin, making me look almost sickly.</p>
<p>Water is the only thing I can keep down, so I sip slowly, letting my gaze blanket the room. There’s a rowdy table only a few feet from me, who keep laughing and looking at me. One of them pretends to stab another with a pencil, and they pop a ketchup packet, so it sails through the air like blood. I feel some splash on my cheek, but most of it winds up on my shirt.</p>
<p>It’s all that needs to happen for a chorus of laughs to fill the cafeteria. In the middle of this, I hear someone chanting my name. My <em>real</em> name.</p>
<p>“Imogen Southwick!” A group of them say. “Imogen Southwick!”</p>
<p>My heart swells, and I want to give them all something to fear. I want to stand on the top of the table and throw food, bash at my chest like an ape. I want to rip their heads off. The urge is so strong, that I clench my fists tight enough for my nails to leave marks on my palms. If I gave in to my primal thoughts, I wouldn’t be making a statement, I’d only cement the idea that I’m a monster too. Like my mother.</p>
<p>Before I fall apart, I stand, leaving my trash behind. I rush to the most hidden restroom that I can find, then make sure it’s empty. Stale bathroom air fills my lungs as I take in one large breath after another. It’s a tactic I use to calm myself down. I close my eyes tight, then scrape as much of the ketchup from my shirt that I can. It’s sticky and smells sweet.</p>
<p>I can’t stop the tears when they start.</p>
<p>Behind my eyelids, I’m back where I should be. I’m in the shadow of the twins, I’m the ugly one, I’m the one no one thinks about. A piece of heaven locked away in my brain reminds me that I was once that girl—once the one who stood exactly where she belonged.</p>
<p>The bathroom door opens, but I don’t open my eyes. “Get out,” I say.</p>
<p>Sorrow is making me weak, proving to those in the cafeteria that I’m exactly who they think I am. I am nothing but a monster’s daughter. When the footsteps don’t recede, I peel my eyes open, and glare at the only other person in the bathroom.</p>
<p>In the reflection of the dirty mirror, she looks almost like my mother. My breath speeds up, then slows. I turn, throw a glare at her, hoping it hurts like a slap. She’s a short thing, with heels that make her seem much taller than she really is.</p>
<p>Stupidly, she stands there, watching me with eyes that remind me of no one. It’s a relief, because her hair is so bright, it’s almost as if it’s alive. If I focus on the eyes, it’s like I’m looking at a stranger. Looking at someone who resembles no one. She’s just a girl.</p>
<p>“I’m Lydia,” she says with a voice that seems as if it’s never needed a reason to be nervous. She’s dressed nicely, and I can tell she’s got some sort of control here.</p>
<p>“Leave me alone,” I tell her. There’s a warning in my voice. “What do you want?”</p>
<p>She steps away from me before I realize that I’ve grown to my full height. I’m forbearing, a threat in human form. Like a cornered animal. I force myself to deflate a little, then turn back to the mirror to wipe more ketchup from my cheek.</p>
<p>“Here,” Lydia says to me, pulling a piece of cloth from her bag. I hadn’t even noticed it hanging on her shoulder. “It’s a shirt.”</p>
<p>I reach out, accept the cloth, then pull it back to my chest. I unfurl it and look on both sides, making sure there’s no hidden <em>‘I killed my dad’</em> embroidered on the sleeves. It’s stupid, I know, because no one would be dumb enough to prank a murderer’s daughter, right? I look at Lydia with questioning eyes.</p>
<p>“I don’t think you did anything,” she says quietly. “I hope it fits.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Connie sees me wearing the gauzy blouse given to me by Lydia, she pulls her brows together. I sit silently in the passenger seat and wait for us to park in apartment building’s parking garage before I reach across the middle console and pull her into a hug.</p>
<p>My arms are tight against her neck, but she doesn’t complain. She hugs me back, just as fiercely, pulling me to her as if she wishes that we could meld together. I feel tears start to prick at my eyes, so I pull away. “I’ll go again tomorrow,” I say, pushing the memory of the cafeteria out of my mind. “I will.”</p>
<p>It’s that night when I get to speak to Mom. Every Monday I answer the call from the prison. Every Monday, I sit silently while she talks on the other side of the line. She sounds tired tonight, but I don’t answer any of her questions. She deserves to feel bad, I decided that long ago. I deserve to feel peace. Instead, it’s like I’m regressing, going backwards and suffering.</p>
<p>The sky above me cracks open later in the night, when I’m in my dream-like state, fighting my mother. Her voice is fresh in my mind, so the dreams are more intense. I wake when a bolt of lightning shakes the building. For the rest of the night, I sit in my bed with my eyes focused on the only window in my room. I hate to think it, but I find comfort in the sound of the storm. I want to match the energy—the white-hot bursts of fury, the low rumbling of the ground crying out in pain.</p>
<p>I sit there until the sun begins its ascent into the bright morning air.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Stupid Dream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s Lydia who finds me that morning. She sits down at the desk in front of mine in English, then turns and drops her phone on my desk. With a primped face, she looks like she should be on the cover of a magazine. Red lipstick would make my teeth look yellow, but it only accentuates the beauty of her face.</p><p>“I’m…sorry,” I say, not really understanding why she’s looking at me. “I haven’t washed your shirt yet.”</p><p>She laughs. “Don’t be silly. Keep it.”</p><p>My eyes instinctively squint suspiciously at her. It’s the sense of kindness that makes me feel like something’s wrong. She points down at her phone, so I look to see her contact list. It’s not clicking, because no one has wanted my number for the last year unless they were looking for a scoop on a new story.</p><p>“Go on,” she tells me with the flick of her hand.</p><p>There’s nothing sinister in her request. She tells me what to do like that’s what she was made to do. It’s kind of refreshing. I reach down and grab the phone, adding my name and number, forgoing the last name section entirely.</p><p>“Do you like Imogen or Emmy better?” She asks when she grabs her phone.</p><p><em>Emmy</em>. The name hits me square in the chest. It was a name that I went by for so long, but I hadn’t been called it in over a year. Even Connie calls me Imogen. My mouth is dry, so I reach down and grab my water bottle, swigging it until I’m quenched.</p><p>“Emmy,” I say, because it’s the truth. I used to be Imogen only when I was in trouble. Emmy was what people called me when they were happy—without any lures or traps.</p><p>“Alright, Emmy.” She turns in her seat and shoots me a text, so I have her number.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got the body of a runner,” Lydia tells me later in the day when we find out that we have science together. “Ever thought about track?”</p><p>I highlight a portion of my notes, but still glance at her. “No.”</p><p>She’s applying a layer of lipstick in the reflection of a nearby beaker. As if she hasn’t heard me, she keeps talking. “Cross country tryouts are later this week. You should do it. It might get you out there.”</p><p>I want to tell her to shut up, to stop mothering me, but I can’t. Both of the twins had spent their high school years in sports, but I’d never thought about it. I hated to admit that the thought wasn’t a horrible one. I looked at her. “Fine. Only if you do it too.”</p><p>It’s a good bargain, but Lydia doesn’t even look away from the beaker. “Absolutely not,” she says. We’re shushed by the teacher, so she rolls her eyes. “I don’t run, okay? I’ll wait by the parking lot, and then I’ll take you out for milkshakes when you’re done.”</p><p>“You’re trying to bribe me with food?” I ask her slyly.</p><p>“Of course.” She’s chipper, giving me a smile that makes me want to smile too. I don’t, but the thought it gives me is purely happy. “Everyone likes milkshakes.”</p><p>We’re shushed again, but I nod at Lydia. If it gets me a free milkshake, I’ll accept my fate and tryout for a team that won’t want me. I wonder if the twins would be laughing right now. If I close my eyes, I can imagine them teasing me over the dinner table. Dad’s laughing but making them lay off me because I’ve always been his favorite. Mom’s there too, eyes vacant like they were the last time I saw her, but there’s a smile on her face.</p><p>I ignore the look she sends me across the dining room table, because it’s an angry one. Her eyebrows are tilted in a way that means I should leave, but I can’t stop myself from staring.</p><p>It’s Lydia’s hand that jolts me back to reality.</p><p>“Are you okay?” She asks, holding my arm steady in her grasp. Her lipstick is back in her bag, so I’ve got her full attention.</p><p>“Fine,” I say, trying my best to seem truthful. The teacher snaps his fingers in my direction, so I pull my attention away from Lydia. “I’m fine,” I whisper to myself, soft enough so that no one can hear me. “I’m <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>The truth about my life is that I’m usually <em>not</em> fine. I’ve spent a year cowering in the face of every single person I meet because I fear that they will believe me to be something sinister. Before that, I was always saying that I was fine when in actuality I was mourning the loss of my sisters. And before that, I was never truly fine unless I was completely alone.</p><p>It’s loneliness that keeps me going now, I think. Without Lydia beside me, chatting my ear off, I’m something most students fear. A threat that wears hoodies to school when all of the other students wear dresses and pressed shirts. I feel for the girl inside me that wants to socialize and make friends, but I understand the gruff exterior that I put on like a mask.</p><p>When I am alone, the only person that can hurt me is myself.</p><p>This is why I turn down Lydia’s offer to hangout every day after school. She walks me to Connie’s car, even chats with Connie like their buddies, and tells me what she’s doing that night. Usually, it’s something including her friend Allison. I wonder if she talks to Allison and explains the comradery that we’ve found with each other. Not friends, I think, but breaching the line.</p><p>Connie puts dinner on the table on Thursday night, sitting next to me so we can dig in. I’ve dug out the only workout gear I own and have just finished a jog around the town. Ravenous, I shovel the food into my mouth. Next to me, Connie takes her time, making precise bites that she chews thoughtfully. It calming to be with her, so I try to mimic the way she ponders over her food.</p><p>“Running?” She asks after a while.</p><p>We don’t talk during dinner, so I find myself widening my eyes. Connie’s looking down at her plate, but I can feel nerves radiating from her like heat. Instead of ignoring her like I so usually do, I force myself to nod. “I think it’s good for me.”</p><p>She nods but doesn’t say anything.</p><p> </p><p>On Saturday we find a desk that’s reasonable for my bedroom. While I decorate it with notebooks and pens, Connie brings big bags into my room. I don’t notice them until she points them out, adorning my bed like presents. In one bag I find a quilt made from soft fluffy fabric and two pillow cases to match. In another, I find shorts and leggings. The third is more clothes, but they’re fancier than I usually wear.</p><p>“On sale,” Connie says so I don’t make her take it all back.</p><p>It’s too much, I want to say. All too much for me.</p><p>I hug her instead.</p><p>That night I finally agree to go out with Lydia and Allison. “Bowling!” She squeals over the phone. “I haven’t been bowling in ages.”</p><p>With little confidence, I pull out some of the new clothes Connie got me. I pull on some of my old jeans, not really liking how they sit baggy around my legs but snug on my hips and waist. I choose a black top with little hearts all over it and tuck the hem into the jeans. The sleeves are long and puffy, and when I look in the mirror, I think I look like a pirate.</p><p>Connie tries not to smile when she sees me, but I can tell she’s happy. She’s always been one of those people that infected the room with their emotions. When she’s happy, I can’t contain myself, and feel happy too.</p><p>Lydia all but screams when she sees me in something undeniably attractive. She apologizes when she realizes that she just told me that I don’t usually look attractive, but smiles at me with her eyes in the rearview mirror. Next to her is Allison, who I’ve heard a lot about but have never really noticed.</p><p>She’s beautifully elegant, with straight white teeth and a thin face. If I squint my eyes, I can imagine that they’re the twins in the front seat—one with fire hair and one with deep brown locks. I feel misty, but I shove it down. <em>Not tonight</em>, I tell myself as Lydia reminds me that we have English with Allison, <em>I will not feel sad tonight</em>.</p><p> </p><p>When it’s Wednesday, I wake up with anxiety in my chest. The day has arrived, and I know that I am forced to try out for a sport that I don’t even care about. Connie packed my clothes up last night, so I have an extra bag full of my sneakers, shorts, and a tee shirt. I put something on that Lydia will like, and even go so far to blot some color on my cheeks and lips.</p><p><em>Gorgeous</em>, I can hear Lydia saying already, <em>Gor-Ge-Ous.</em></p><p>English goes smoothly, and now that everyone is used to my presence, I no longer feel as if I’m being stared at. Allison sits next to me, and she tries to help me learn the names of her other friends in the class when we have time to talk. Lydia compliments my outfit, then begins explaining Allison’s explanations.</p><p>We’re walking to lunch when Allison tries again to walk me through some names. “Scott,” she says, “With the dark hair?”</p><p>Lydia swings her arm through mine. “Cutie with the puppy eyes?” She asks me, to which I understand more than Allison’s description. Almost every boy at this school has dark hair. “He and Allison <em>dated</em>.”</p><p>I gape at Allison. “How long?” I ask.</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>Lydia’s giggling. “Half a <em>year!</em>”</p><p>Allison begins to disagree, but Lydia is ready for a bickering match. The two go at it like chickens in a clucking contest, and I give myself a moment to relax. I remember what it was like to have friends, a long time ago, before they all left me or told me that I was too dangerous for them. I don’t remember it being so loud, though. When they’re not laughing about something, Lydia and Allison bicker and argue about something else entirely.</p><p>“You know,” Lydia says, garnering my attention, “You haven’t really talked to Scott yet, have you?” I shake my head, because I don’t even know who Scott is really. There are many boys with dark hair, but far more have Lydia’s description of puppy eyes. “Well, he’s trying out for the cross country, right?” This question to Allison.</p><p>Allison’s looking a little queasy, like she really doesn’t want to be talking about Scott anymore. “I don’t know.”</p><p>Lydia stops walking abruptly, then snaps her fingers until Allison and I stop as well. “Allison, go work on something in the library please. I’m going to introduce Emmy to Scott, and I don’t need you there all sheet-faced.”</p><p>It’s an accurate description of Allison’s face, because she’s lost all color and is now far closer to my white pillowcase at home than she should be. Almost as if she’s been saved from a swim in the piranha tank, she nods, giving me a sort of wave before heading off.</p><p>When she’s gone, Lydia’s got my arm linked with hers again.</p><p>“Let’s go make you some friends.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There are about five people sitting at the table Lydia drags me to, but only two remain sitting when they recognize me. One with undeniably puppy-like eyes, and the other with a crazed rabid look to him. Lydia smiles and turns to me.</p><p>“Scott and Stiles,” she says in introduction. She looks at them. “This is Emmy.”</p><p>It’s the one with the puppy eyes that smiles at me first. “Hi,” he says, not fearing my company in the slightest. “It’s nice to meet you, Emmy.”</p><p>It’s the other one who’s looking at me like I’ve already killed him. “Why isn’t it Stiles and Scott?” He’s asking Lydia, but his eyes are on me. His upper lip is sweating, and I have a feeling he’s trying to prove some sort of dominance by not looking away from me.</p><p>“Can I help you?” I ask him finally, breaking his internal trance. He blinks rapidly, then looks at Scott as if he’s contemplating running away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”</p><p>“He’s not scared,” Lydia explains easily, “He’s just idiotic.”</p><p>She wraps around the table and sits next to Scott, leaving me a spot next to Stiles, who’s eyes are darting around as if he’s a mouse being hunted by a snake. I wonder if I’m the snake in this scenario, or if there’s something bigger that I should fear as well. I shake Scott’s hand when he reaches out and accept the kind smile on his face without giving him one as well.</p><p>I fear that Lydia and I have officially stepped into friend territory, because she talks about me as if she’s known me for forever. “Emmy’s trying out for cross country, and if I remember correctly, the lacrosse team has to join in, right?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Scott’s nodding. “You like to run?”</p><p>“Sure,” I venture, because even though I enjoy the feeling of running, I’m not sure if it could be considered competitive. “I’d like to see if I like it enough to compete.”</p><p>At a nearby table, I hear the familiar snickers of students as they watch me. I’m teleported back to my first lunch period at the school, when they chanted my name and sprayed me with ketchup. Without thinking, I stand. It’s like I have an internal control that tells me when I should run. Lydia gets up too, and sort of blocks me from running away. Her arm is looped through mine, but she pulls me closer to her in a way that I know is supposed to be kind but feels more suffocating.</p><p>“Loony Lydia with the San Fran Psycho,” someone says. They sound as if they’re trying to be quiet, but I know what they really want—a reaction similar to the one I had last time.</p><p>My face is warm with embarrassment, but I lock my jaw so no one can see how much I’m trembling. To keep my mind from tumbling, I wonder why they call Lydia names too. She seems so normal, and even though she’s got that mean girl spirit, I can tell she’s much calmer. Like an actress, I assume, playing it up for the cameras while she’s actually screaming inside.</p><p>I pull her closer to me, because even though I hate the feeling of being trapped, I can tell she needs the support. She sends me a quick glance, and her eyes swim with what I can only describe as gratitude. She’s so prim and proper, the outside eye can’t tell that she’s actually as embarrassed as I am. I know different, though. I know her.</p><p>Above us, the lunch bell chimes, reminding us to get to class before we’re late. Scott, seemingly noticing that Lydia and I haven’t gotten the chance to eat anything, scoops up two apples from his and Stiles’ trays, handing them over with a kind smile. I accept my apple and understand why someone as nice as Allison would date him. He’s undeniably kind, but he’s got a sense of generosity to him as well, as if he’s there to provide for his friends.</p><p>Lydia throws a haphazard farewell to the two, then drags me away. We’re caught in the hustle of lunch hour traffic, but Lydia slips through easily.</p><p>“He’s so nice,” I say when I take a bite of my apple.</p><p>“I know,” Lydia responds breezily. “Stiles is the oddball, though.”</p><p>The crazed look of the second boy fills my thoughts. When we’d been walking over to the table, he’d stared at me with big round eyes. People only ever looked at me like that when I was the topic of their conversation. It’s not surprising, I guess, to be the talk of the town. But Scott had been so nice, so I hope he doesn’t think of me as a monster too.</p><p>Lydia drops me off at my next class, then reminds me of our plans after school. I have tryouts, then we meet in the parking lot and she takes me out for a milkshake. Allison’s coming too, she tells me, but I shouldn’t mention how nice Scott was to me. Still a raw wound, she says as explanation.</p><p>I sit through the rest of my classes with a blank face. Some kids try to talk to me, but they’ve got this questioning stare in their eyes, and I know they don’t really want to be friends. They want to ask me if I knew, if I thought my mother would kill me too. Even some of the teachers have the inquisitive stare of someone who wants to ask me something personal.</p><p>It’s boring, I realize, being the thing everyone wants to talk about. It makes me seem like I’m more interesting, when in actuality, I’m just a girl with a really fucked up family. I’m not broody, or cool enough to come off as the bad guy. I can’t even fulfill the fantasies of people who want me to be like my mother. I’m too scared to fight back, too nervous to ignore talk. I’m just a kid, I realize while I stumble through my math class. Just a stupid kid.</p><p> </p><p>When I put on my sneakers in the locker room, I hear the bated breath of every other student around me. Girls in various states of undress are sending me inquisitive stares. I’m wearing an old shirt from my middle school. The words SAN FRANCISCO are printed on the back like a badge of honor. <em>Dumbass,</em> I tell myself internally.</p><p>I wonder if I look intimidating to the girls here—if they think I’m a monster like Mom. I’m wearing the words San Francisco on my back proudly, as if I’m not aware of the death there. Too much death, I remind myself as I throw my hair into a ponytail. So much death, in fact, that even having the words on my body feels like a brand. Hot and splintering, the words bore into me, making me one with them.</p><p>When we emerge into the wilderness behind the school, the boys have already congregated. Giddily, girls saddle up next to the ones they want to impress. I stay close to the back, where no one can read the words on my shirt. I hope that everyone runs faster than me, just so I can be alone and out of the greedy eye.</p><p>We’re standing in the brush just outside of the woods. Trees loom overhead, casting shadows around me in an almost ominous taunt. Like they want me to get lost, like they want to keep me for themselves. My eyes trail the nearest oak, watching as a squirrel deftly defies any law of gravity to careen through the branches. As if it feels my eyes, the squirrel stops running, standing on two legs. It stares down at me, and I can almost hear its tiny baby voice saying, <em>“What the hell are you looking at?”</em></p><p> A man is at the front of the crowd, and he blows a whistle to get the attention of us all. I watch him as he lists off the rules: stay on the course, don’t skip through uncharted territory, don’t get lost. His eyes roam over us all, but they barely meet mine. He’s scared of me too; I realize when he glances over me again.</p><p>“That’s Finstock,” someone says next to me.</p><p>I jump, whirl around to find the voice, then deflate when I recognize the face. “Stiles,” I say, hoping I’ve remembered his name correctly. In the heat of the afternoon sun, he’s wearing a full sweat suit, gray pants and matching sweater. I wonder how he’s not dying. “You scared me.”</p><p>“That’s a first,” he says without really meaning to. He catches the implication of the comment—how I’m usually the one scaring people—and winces. “Sorry.”</p><p>“Whatever.”</p><p>I hate to say it, but I’m used to this. The accidental slips, then the overexaggerated apologies. I fight the urge to snarl at Stiles, so he’ll leave me alone, and he takes it as an opportunity to keep talking to me. I don’t listen, not really, but I take a second to let him think I am. He’s a rambler, so his face—usually pale and freckled—gets a little pink in the cheeks. I think this is the first time a girl has given him her full attention, because when he runs out of things to say, he takes a deep breath and tries to keep going.</p><p>He’s talking so fast that I’m not even sure I’d be able to pay attention to him if I were actively listening. I turn away from him and let my eyes glaze over a little bit, hoping the coach will blow his stupid little whistle and let us start running. As if hearing my thoughts, the shrillness of the whistle pierces the air, quieting Stiles for a second.</p><p>While everyone else rushes off to begin their race, I start slowly, moving at a light jog. I’m hoping that Stiles will catch a hint and understand that I want to run alone, but he sticks by my side, continuously talking even when his breath escapes him.</p><p>“There’s,” he’s panting out his words as we round a corner, far behind our competition. “This really good burger place my dad likes a lot, but I’m trying to get him to eat healthier.”</p><p>I don’t remember him bringing up his father, but I finally tune in to the conversation when he asks me about my favorite kind of burger. “I don’t really eat burgers,” I explain while speeding up a little. Stiles matches my pace. “Connie usually makes dinner. Something she likes.”</p><p>“Connie?” He asks, then groans aloud. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be nosey.”</p><p>Unlike other students who have obvious tried to peak into my personal life, I can tell that he really doesn’t mean to be inquisitive. I have an urge to tell him who Connie is because he seems genuinely apologetic, but I stop myself before I have the chance. In San Francisco, I’d confided in my closest friends throughout the case and trial, and within a few hours, the whole city had known the most personal aspects of the whole thing.</p><p>I can’t make the same mistake again.</p><p>Stiles and I keep jogging, steadily picking up speed until we’re back with the rest of the crowd. For a second, I let myself get lost in the rhythmic momentum of feet hitting the ground. Sweat pours from my face, and my breath is labored. Everyone seems so caught up in their own little worlds, that no one really notices me at all.</p><p>I feel anonymous—a ghost within the masses.</p><p>This only last for a second, though, because just ahead, I hear the sound of feet skidding to a halt. Those in the front of the group gasp audibly, but one of them screams, making the rest of us stop in our tracks. My head whips up to catch sight of the girl who’s screamed, but my eyes find something much worse.</p><p>Just ahead, there’s a tree. Like many others, it’s grown, and its shadow is long and forbearing. Tied to the front, though, is the bloody carcass of a man. He’s dead, obviously, because through the blood staining his clothes, I can see something tying his neck to the tree tight enough to break it. There are other wounds, but my vision fogs over before I can look any closer.  My mouth hangs agape.</p><p>“Someone, call the police!” A kid yells out. We’ve all left our phones in the locker room, so no one moves. Another voice filters in through the chaos around me, cutting my heart in half.</p><p>“I bet it was Psycho Southwick!”</p><p>Stiles grabs my elbow, then pulls me back, away from the rest of the team. Their eyes have all found me, and not one person denies the claim. I can’t even deny it, because I’m fighting to stay upright. My head is clouded, and my knees are shaking like leaves in the wind. Do they really think I’d do something so vile? Apparently, they do, because everyone is staring at me with their eyebrows furrowed. Like they’re mad at me.</p><p>Behind me, I hear people stomping through the woods. I turn, catch Scott’s eyes, then look behind him to see three people I’ve never met. A pair of twin boys with strong forheads, and a loner who stands taller than all of us. Scott’s not scared of me, and he kind of steps in front of me so I’m out of everyone’s line of sight. He’s talking to Stiles with a shushed voice, but I’m not picking up anything they’re saying.</p><p>Coach Finstock comes rushing in to the group then, pushing us all away from the tree. He’s blowing his whistle, and he’s got his phone to his ear, obviously calling for help. We stumble back like a herd of confused sheep, and Stiles loses his grip on my elbow. I feel drained all of a sudden, and I fight the urge to sink to the ground. I have a feeling that it would make me seem even more guilty.</p><p>It’s less than five minutes when I hear the sound of police sirens pierce the air. They’re loud enough to give me a headache. Three officers break through the tree line, and two of them work on crowd control. The third officer, the one wearing the Sheriff badge, yells out orders.</p><p>“Get these kids out of here!” He yells out.</p><p>Stiles shoves me aside and moves up to the man, arm raised as if he’s calming down a wild animal. “Dad, dad, dad,” he’s saying.</p><p>I’m so surprised to learn that Stiles’ father is the Sheriff, that I don’t even feel the handcuffs around my wrists until they lock into place. One of the officers is behind me, and he’s breathing down my neck. I pull on the restraints, then turn and try to wrench out of the man’s grasp. He holds me tight and squeezes my wrists tight enough with the cuffs that I fear I’ll lose blood flow in my hands.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Stiles asks when he notices what’s happening.</p><p>The Sheriff looks like he’s sad, but he just tells everyone to go back to the school. Someone who didn’t leave their phone in the locker room takes a picture of me, and the flash blinds me momentarily.</p><p>“I didn’t do anything.” I say it as calmly as I can.</p><p>Around me, students are wandering off to go back to the school. I pull against the cuffs again, but it’s no use. Behind me, the officer says, “Imogen Southwick, you have the right to remain silent.”</p><p>“My name isn’t Imogen Southwick,” I tell him frantically. “Please.”</p><p>I’m like a wild animal suddenly, and I feel like the rug has been pulled out from under me. Someone keeps taking pictures of me, so I duck my head low. I want to scream, but my throat fills with cotton. It’s the thickness I know is usually followed with tears. I’m hyperventilating, my breath coming out in sporadic bursts.</p><p>Before I can try to once again prove my innocence, I’m being marched off to a nearby deputy car. I’m being forced inside, but it’s like the fight is draining out of me. I faintly hear Scott and Stiles talking to the Sheriff—I think one of them even tries to open the backdoor to the car I’m in. Voices meld together as if they’re all part of a stew—boiling and churning angrily. Heat fills me, embarrassment and fear.</p><p>My eyes find the front of the vehicle, where the deputy is sitting behind the wheel. I wonder if Mom did the same thing when she was arrested after Dad’s death. I wonder if she spoke, or yelled, or spat at the officer. I do none of these things, because I feel as if I’m a dog who’s just gotten picked up to go to the pound.</p><p>I lean over in the backseat, and rest my head on the seat, not even caring about the germs that must be there. My phone is still in the school, and I don’t know if I have Connie’s number memorized, so I close my eyes and try to remember. If I’m right, I get one call when I get to the police station. That means I need to remember Connie’s number before we get there. I squeeze my eyes as tight as they’ll go and hope, when I open them, that this is all a dream.</p><p>All a stupid dream.</p>
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